Frayed
by atetheredmind
Summary: In District 13, Haymitch finally confronts a hijacked Peeta. Written for the promptsinpanem/Everlark Week Challenge.


_**Author's note:** This was written for the_ **promptsin****panem **_challenge on tumblr (also known as the Everlark Week Challenge). That's why I categorized it under "Katniss & Peeta" even though it's mostly Haymitch and Peeta. Check out all the amazing responses to the prompts on tumblr!_

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This whole sobriety thing was rough. Haymitch was reminded of why he had given up on trying it in his earlier days of drinking back in Twelve. Having to face his demons was a hell of a lot easier when he was drunk.

Right now, he had one very big demon to face, and his name was Peeta Mellark.

If it were up to Haymitch, he'd be knee deep in bourbon right now. But District 13 had rules, or some stupid shit like that. Maybe if he pretended to be a complete basket case like Katniss or Johanna, he could convince them to pump an IV full of liquor into his veins.

Sighing, he ambled down the hallway to Peeta's hospital room. The kid was the only one still locked up in the psych ward—even screwball Annie Cresta had been deemed safe enough to integrate back into the rest of the population. Up ahead, the door to his room swung open, and a beaten down Delly Cartwright emerged. When the door shut, she leaned against the wall and sobbed quietly. Haymitch gritted his teeth, and as he got closer, she looked up to regard him through watery eyes.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he asked gruffly, hoping she'd just nod and leave it at that. He didn't think he could deal with another troubled teenager. Two was his limit.

Delly wiped at her tears and smiled tremulously. "I will be. It's just tough—seeing him like this," she gestured vaguely at the closed door, her voice cracking. "He's just so _angry_ and _hurt_. In all the years I've known him, with everything that happened—he never let it get to him like this. I just don't know how to help him."

He nearly snorted. If any of them knew how to help him, the kid wouldn't still be strapped down in the loony bin, cut off from the rest of the district's inhabitants. "You're helping, sweetheart. You're the only one left who can help him with his earlier memories. He'll appreciate it...someday," Haymitch said, but the promise felt hollow.

Fuck, he really needed a drink.

Delly nodded and flashed him one more valiant smile. "Well, good luck," she offered, throwing a look over her shoulder before she hurried down the hallway out of sight.

Haymitch headed into an adjoining room first, where doctors were observing Peeta through a large two-way mirror. The kid was handcuffed to a desk by his left hand, his free hand gripping a red crayon as he sketched an indecipherable image on a white sheet of paper.

The doctors gave him the go-ahead to talk to their patient, punching a button to automatically unlock the door. Haymitch slipped out of the room and grabbed the door handle. Steeling his nerves, he twisted the handle down and swung the door open, sweeping inside. The kid's menacing eyes were immediately on him, and his mouth went dry. He was suddenly glad for the handcuffs.

"What do you want?" Peeta's words were bitter, accusatory. Tired.

"Came to talk, kid," he said, pulling up a chair to sit in. He made sure to leave plenty of room between the two of them. He remembered how Peeta's hands had unexpectedly closed around Katniss' neck the first time they had seen him after his rescue; he didn't want to provoke a similar reaction now. And, partly, he didn't want to make the boy uncomfortable or make him feel threatened. Distance was safe. Distance was a mercy.

"So talk," Peeta said simply, turning his eyes back to his drawing. His hand scratched over the smooth surface in jerky motions. "Can't promise I'll listen, though. I get an hour a day to draw, and they only give me these dinky crayons to use. Like I'm a 5-year-old."

Haymitch wanted to tell him a 5-year-old probably wouldn't attempt to stab anyone with a drawing utensil; those crayons were for his visitors' safety. Instead, he cleared his throat and waited a couple minutes to speak again. "You know you're directing your anger at the wrong person, kid."

Peeta stiffened, his hand bearing down harder on the sheet of paper. "Oh? And who should I be mad at?"

"The girl didn't abandon you in the arena" The crayon stilled at the mention of Katniss. "I was the one who left you there."

Neither of them spoke for a moment, and Haymitch was sure he heard Peeta's breathing speed up. "You left me in the second arena to die," Peeta clarified quietly, "just like you left me in the first one. Do you think I'm surprised by this, Haymitch?"

The older man leaned back in his chair to study him. "No. But I'm betting you have a lot of pent-up rage about that. So we should talk about it."

"What's there to talk about? You chose her. You didn't care about me, just like _she_ didn't care about me," he bit out, the crayon scratching back and forth shakily across the paper at a frenzied rate. Haymitch didn't think he was even drawing anything at this point. "You two had some kind of plan the entire time. You had worked out ahead of time that you were going to save her in both games. I'm sure you two had a nice laugh about poor, stupid, clueless Peeta. What did she do to convince you to pick her, huh? Did she fuck you? I bet she did. She was fucking everybody." Peeta snorted; his knuckles were white from gripping the crayon. "Everybody except me. I'm just a joke to her. To _you_."

Haymitch bristled at the accusations, his neck flushing with anger. "Sorry, prickly and emotionally stunted don't do anything for me. If she was fucking anyone but you, that's news to me. But you're right: I picked her. I picked her because you told me to."

Peeta whirled around in his seat to face him, as far as the handcuffs would let him. "Because she manipulated me!" he snarled. The crayon snapped in his fist. "She made me think that I was in love with her, and she used my feelings to save herself!"

Flaring his nostrils, Haymitch inhaled deeply. He needed to rein in his temper; he didn't need the doctors to tell him that much. "No. The girl didn't know how you felt in the first games. You came to me because you had a plan to help her—you wanted to confess your love to the country so you could help her get sponsors. You were willing to die for her, and she had nothing to do with that. The second games, _she_ asked me to save _you_. She nearly took my eyes out when she realized I had left you behind in the arena. She tried to kill herself when she found out the Capitol had you. You can't blame her." Peeta glowered at him, but he didn't speak. Haymitch continued, "I'm the one who let you down, kid. Even though it's what you wanted, I chose her. And I chose to leave you behind for the Capitol to take because we needed her. She was essential to the rebellion. I traded your life for hers."

There. He had said it. That had been eating him up inside. If he thought he had it in him, he might have wept from the guilt. But 25 years of drowning his miseries in drink had left him mostly unable to connect with his emotions these days. Aside from disdain and contempt—he had plenty of that. He wasn't sure he had that place in him anymore, whatever it was that allowed him to feel sadness and empathy. Maybe he had filled it up with alcohol a long time ago.

"Why do you hate me, Haymitch?" Peeta asked hoarsely. Pain was visible in the angry creases of his face. His left hand strained against the metal cuff, and Haymitch could see red marks forming.

"I don't hate you, kid," he said thickly. "You're probably the person I hate the least in this whole fucking country. If you were what the resistance needed, I would have saved you in a heartbeat. But it had to be her. I'm sorry." He nearly choked on his apology, but he knew it was the least he owed the kid.

"You're _sorry_?" Peeta repeated incredulously. He jerked his left arm against his restraints. Luckily, the desk was bolted down. "Do you know what they did to me in the Capitol? _Do you_?" He began twisting his wrist in the handcuff, his whole body trembling with barely suppressed rage. "They tortured me. I had to listen to them torture people I know. They stuck me with needles, over and over. They beat me. They assaulted me." His voice rose a few octaves as he yelled, and Haymitch flinched. "Worst of all, they took my fucking _mind_! And you sat by and let them do it!"

Haymitch was struck speechless. He knew all of this, and he had no words of comfort, no excuses. The kid was right: He had let it happen.

Peeta yanked mindlessly on his handcuff, methodically twisting his wrist back and forth. Blood blossomed along the angry red marks on his pale skin. "Why did you rescue me? Why did you bring me back here where I have to look at everyone's faces and _know_ how disgusted they are with me? Where I have to be constantly reminded of how fucking crazy I am? You think I like looking at _her_ and seeing how much she hates me? You should have left me at the Capitol! At least _there_I knew what they wanted to do with me! I knew where I stood!" Suddenly, Peeta twisted back in his chair and slammed his head against his desk.

Haymitch jumped in his chair, startled, his eyes darting to the mirror. Where the fuck were the doctors?

"Jesus, kid," he breathed, gripping the sides of his chair, but Peeta kept banging his head against the metal desk.

"Just let me go! Drop me in the middle of nowhere to die!" he moaned, choking on a sob. "Just fucking kill me already! I can't handle this anymore!"

"Jesus Christ, someone give him some fucking morphling already!" Haymitch roared at the mirror, and the doctors burst into the room, wrestling with the distraught boy. He watched as they forced Peeta's arm out and jammed a needle into his forearm while he screamed hysterically. He flailed against the doctors for a couple more minutes until the drugs subdued him. Whimpering, he collapsed to the floor and eventually went limp.

Shaking, Haymitch stumbled out of the room and slumped against the wall. He was sweating. He swallowed painfully, realizing how dry his throat was.

What he wouldn't give for some fucking bourbon right now.


End file.
